


your hand in my hand

by misskatieleigh



Category: God's Own Country (2017)
Genre: Emotional Growth, Established Relationship, M/M, gay farmers in love, lace panties are a thing apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: He’s the home Johnny didn’t know he was looking for.





	your hand in my hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rogueshadows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogueshadows/gifts).



> Thank you to [rogueshadows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rogueshadows) for showing me this film and encouraging this, and to [ANTchan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ANTchan/pseuds/ANTchan) for reassuring me that the voices sounded right.

It probably says more about Johnny than it ought to, that going after Gheorghe, asking him to come back, feels like romance. No love confessions, no apologies spoken, just _come back_. It isn't enough. There's a voice in the back of his head, one that sounds suspiciously like Gheorghe, low and honest and curving round his heart. It says that something’s still missing. Something's still not right.

Selling the caravan is a start. It feels more like a statement, like some kind of declaration. Johnny isn't sure who needs it more, him or Gheorghe. He only knows that it's the beginning of closing the gaps in his ribs, where he tore his own heart out.

***

Gheorge fills the house. He’s more than just the physical space he captures or another seat at the table. He’s there in the sound of voices rising and falling where they lived silently before. He’s there in the space of a touch, a steady hand at the back of Johnny’s neck. He is another pair of boots stood by the door, another person climbing out of bed with the sunrise, half-asleep kisses and generous hands. He’s the home Johnny didn’t know he was looking for.

***

After Dad's stroke, getting up and down the stairs to bed was more effort than either Johnny or Nan could manage twice a day. The downside to that was losing half the front room, couch and chair shoved to one side to make room for a bed. The upside was a bigger mattress, instead of the single Johnny's slept on for countless years. 

It's still not quite big enough for two grown men to sleep in, but Johnny almost likes waking up tucked between the wall and the insistent heat of Gheorghe's body. Makes winter a bit more bearable, even when the wind pitches a fit across the open fields, howling at the house jutting up in its path. 

Nan, to her credit, doesn't have much to say about the sleeping arrangements. 

“You'll be needing t’bring your own laundry down, though. I'm not picking through your mess to figure what's dirty.”

Not much doesn't mean not anything, but the effect’s softened by the startled noise she makes when Gheorghe says, “Of course”, and rests his hand on her shoulder for just a second. It’s strange to realize that Johnny’s not the only one who’s not used to being touched. 

***

He gets up the nerve to apologize, eventually. Gheorghe is getting ready for bed, stripped to the waist and pacing the room while he brushes his teeth. Johnny lays on the bed and watches him, poking through the book Gheorghe has on the nightstand. He can't even read it, it's in Romanian, but he likes seeing where Gheorghe has folded the the corners over, or scribbled something in the margins in his chicken-scratch handwriting. 

Gheorghe smiles at him, toothpaste foam at the corners of his mouth, and goes down the hall to spit. Johnny's chest aches. 

When he comes back, Johnny is standing in the middle of the room, mouth moving before the door is even closed. 

“Please, don't say anything, need t’get this out ‘fore it eats me up anymore. I know I don't deserve you, never will. Don't know why y’came back at all, really.” Gheorghe steps forward, hand out, but Johnny stops him, gripping both of Gheorghe's arms at the elbow. “I'm no good at talking, but I need you t’ know I'm sorry for what happened.”

Gheorghe closes his eyes, mouth turning down at the corners. Maybe he shouldn't have brought it up again, torn the stitches out of a wound that's still healing, but now he has to finish what he started. “I said I didn't want to fuck things up anymore, and I meant it. I can't ever make up for what I did, I can only promise not to do it again.”

There's silence for a minute, then Gheorghe opens his eyes. His voice is rough when he speaks, like he's been screaming instead of keeping quiet. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Gheorghe steps into Johnny's space, hands finding his waist. He tucks his face up against Johnny's neck and just stands there for a minute, breathing slowly. Finally, he pulls back, leaning in for a kiss that doesn't last nearly long enough by Johnny's opinion, and brings his hand up to run his knuckles over where his face had been. “Keep your promise, okay?”

It hurts, but Johnny knows he earned that. Then, Gheorghe smiles at him again, and Johnny promises himself he'll earn that too.

***

Dad doesn't get better. Nan said it and it's the truth because she hasn't time for nonsense in the world. Things are how they are and that's that. Nevermind that she said he wouldn't amount to fuck-all, that he was a waste of effort, negotiating him into manhood just to tear him down at the slightest cause. 

(Gheorghe builds him back up, a wall made of finely fitted stones. The chipping away hurts, but he's a whole person when they fit their mouths together.)

Dad doesn't get better. Some days he's halfway to normal, still quiet, but listening, able to focus and grit out a few words. Others, he's vacant, existing in a separate reality than they are. He and Johnny have never done well saying what they mean to each other, defensive of their own hearts to the point of destruction. The stroke somehow broke one of his barriers away, made him able to show the kindness that he'd held back before. It's a cruel blessing, to get something he's always wanted at the cost of Dad's independence.

He has another stroke, then another - small ones that they don't even realize, and a bigger one that Gheorghe is there for, holding Nan up until the ambulance arrives.

It’s the same doctor as before, the ‘young coloured lass’ who turns out to be from Nigeria, probably regretting whatever decision brought her to the Yorkshire Moors. She marks his charts, fancy words that mean unfit, unable, unfixable. They hit a little too close for comfort to Johnny. Gheorghe steps up behind him, spreads his palm over Johnny’s clenched fist, where everyone can see. Before, he would have pushed back, spun and attacked with all the words that were really directed at himself. Now, he finds Gheorghe’s other hand, pulls it around to his too fast heart, and lets himself be comforted. 

Nan works her jaw, sunken eyes taking them in. She knows how he is, though neither of them have ever said it outright. There's no hiding this though, not with Gheorghe resting his forehead against the back of Johnny's neck. She looks away. 

“Mrs. Saxby, it will be better for everyone if Martin stays in hospital. So we can monitor him, regulate anticoagulants and all. As it is, I'm afraid that the damage to his brain is irreversible.”

Nan nods, the skin around her eyes turning red with checked emotion. 

“If that's what's best, I s’pose. We can still visit, surely?”

The doctor smiles, but there's a tightness around her eyes, her voice held carefully neutral. “Of course. It will do him good, to see familiar faces.” She pauses, glancing between Johnny and Nan, at Gheorghe behind him. “You might think about setting his affairs in order, set up power of attorney. Just...a suggestion, of course.”

“Have to have a lawyer in, I imagine. Settle the farm.”

Dad lies there, vacant eyes looking nowhere. Nan’s mouth tightens, the doctor shifting uncomfortably, probably wanting to continue on, but caught in their uncertainty. Gheorghe breathes behind him, and Johnny breathes in time, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Yeah. I'll make a call in the morning.”

He turns enough to catch view of Gheorghe out of the corner of his eye, some small private smile on his mouth. A nod, that he’s good, that he’s doing right, and _Christ_ that shouldn’t mean as much as it does. Pride burns up through Johnny, stripping away the chaff of last season. Left behind is the quiet of laying together in the dark, is the kitten softness of Gheorghe’s tongue, is three hundred miles on a coach for a second chance. 

(It's love, a thousand times over in every push and pull between them.)

It isn't enough, the word held in his heart, in his lungs, under his tongue but never out loud. Dad doesn't get better and the farm is his. Gheorghe is his, beside him, behind him, on top of him in the early morning grayness. He wants to burn the words into all that skin, shove Gheorghe’s perfect, good heart in the face of everyone that wrote him off over the years. If only he could fight them out of his mouth for the one that deserves to hear them. 

***

The lawyer is the most nondescript man Johnny’s ever met. He looks like he could blend in with the scenery outside, melt into nothing. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. He has the paperwork, for the farm, for the land that’s been theirs for ages. All Johnny has to do is sign off, and it’ll be his. 

It doesn’t feel right. Dad’s still there, well, in hospital anyhow - still breathing. (Johnny wonders if he’d survive, trapped inside his own head like that, not able to collect words together to talk to anyone. Dad smiles now, though, so maybe it’s easier for him that way, not under the weight of life anymore.)

Nan watches him, mouth pursing at his hand that’s somehow not signing the papers. Gheorghe walks past the window, heading between the barn and the driveway, probably getting the post from the box at the end. He sets down the pen.

“If I wanted someone else on the papers, would that be difficult?”

Nan draws in a sharp breath. “What’re you on about? Just sign the papers and get on with things.”

If the past few months have done anything, they’ve given him enough spine to keep the pen on the table. Johnny looks at the lawyer, his bland face and his torn resolve, eyes darting up to Nan and back to Johnny. 

“Could be done, s’pose. Difficult would depend on the who.”

“He means his man, the Romanian.” 

Johnny doesn’t look away. Let this bastard judge how he sees fit, his opinion doesn’t mean anything. The lawyer licks his lips, looking down at the papers. “Can’t say how that would work, with the laws changing and all. If he’s not British it could complicate things. You’d have to have him sign, at the least, for the business end of things.”

Johnny picks up the pen. Gheorghe is walking back now, that damn lamb trailing after him like a pup or something. It’ll be in the house next, despite Nan’s stern looks about where the livestock belong. (Johnny doesn’t blame her, he finds himself trailing behind some days, content to watch the breadth of Gheorghe’s shoulders against the changing sky.)

Probably, he should have thought this through better, at least had Gheorghe in the house so he could speak his mind about the prospect. It’s a little too much like a proposal though, and maybe not something that should come before he figures out how to speak past his own idiocy. The idea sets something off in his stomach, nervous like butterflies trying to get at the newly opened flowers. He doesn’t even know if Gheorghe wants that from him, more than just having a say in how the farm runs. 

Nan’s hand on his shoulder is a surprise, a kinder touch than he can remember getting from her for years. “Sort that out later, maybe. You’ve time still.”

She steps away, going to fuss with the kettle for tea or something, just enough noise to show she’s busy. He can feel the phantom weight of her palm when he signs though, some small comfort. 

Gheorghe wanders in when they’re finishing, shucking his boots off and padding in socked feet into the kitchen. Nan smacks his hand away from the biscuits, some muttered conversation filtering through the walls. Johnny’s sure his ears have gone red, the lawyer standing there with his hand out to shake. He never realized how quiet the house was before, how every time Gheorghe walks in things seem brighter. How he never wants to go without that again, especially not where he’s the cause of Gheorghe leaving.

Finally, the lawyer clears his throat and shuffles the papers into his briefcase. “Right then. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Saxby.”

Johnny drags his attention back and leads the lawyer to the door, fighting the urge to say Mr. Saxby’s in hospital. He’ll have to learn to settle under that name now, regardless of what he wants.

***

It’s Nan that pulls the box out of storage. 

“S’pose there’s no use holding to this any longer. Might get a decent price at market, for the lace if naught else.”

The box holds the only pieces of his mother left on the farm, everything else sold or handed off years ago. Johnny’s fingers twitch. Gheorghe is outside, checking on one of the ewe’s getting ready to lamb in the next couple days. 

“Kept it this long, what’s a little longer?” He has no argument for it, just knows it’s not something he’s ready to let go. It’s just Nan trying to dig under his skin, anyway, in her own way, reminding him of what’s off about him.

“Do what you want, you always do.” She turns back to the ladder, ancient wood creaking as she puts her weight on the bottom rung. The attic above is a gaping void, black and drafty, home to cobwebs and the detritus of a life in one place. 

“I’ll take care of it in a bit. No need to bother yourself climbing back up.”

Nan huffs at him, thin mouth pursing. Her head tilts toward the door, gesturing beyond. “Just keep it out of your man’s cheese, already ruined the good tea towel.”

He doesn’t say anything else. After a moment, she sighs. “Guess I’m going t’bed then.”

Johnny nods, watching the door and the box out of the corner of his eye. He waits until she leaves before he picks it up, then another beat before he carries it up the stairs to his room. 

The lace inside is beginning to yellow at the edges. It doesn’t smell of anything much, maybe faintly of lavender judging by the dried out sprigs crumbling at the bottom. It’s heavier than he expected, layers and layers of fabric with something stiffer and scratchier below. That’s how things always seem to be - pretty on the out, but chafing within. He doesn’t know, he was never good with metaphors in school. 

He’s still holding it when Gheorghe comes in, pink cheeked from the cold and already tugging at his belt. 

"I’m not wearing that." 

"Wasn't asking you to." 

He touches the lace, the fine threads catching on his calloused fingers. Something loose is lying underneath. It's more lace, but even finer, put together into a pair of white knickers. He holds them up, imagining the swell of Gheorghe's cock underneath them, whorls of thick hair on his stomach. Imagines the taste of him through the lace.

"What 'bout these?"

Gheorghe's nostrils flare, a considering look in the set of his mouth. “You want me to be your little wife?”

Johnny's heart could stop at that. “No. Not my wife.” He stands up and walks closer, lace still clutched in his fingers. “Just want you. S’that okay?”

Gheorghe kisses him, that same secret smile on his mouth when he pulls away. “Yes. That is okay. Even though you are a freak.”

Johnny ducks in again, already addicted to that soft mouth. “You love it.”

Gheorghe touches his face, careful fingers against his jawline. “I do.”

Johnny could start a bonfire with the heat in his face, chest constricting under Gheorghe’s steady, knowing eyes. “You do not have to say it, you know.”

He can’t look anymore. “Fuck. I do though, don’t I? Why can’t I say it? They’re just fucking words!”

“Maybe, you just need to hear them more,” Gheorghe says, mouth against his ear.

They’re wrapped in each other's arms now, Gheorghe’s hands on his back and the nape of his neck. “I love you,” he says, soft and low. His chest rumbles when he says it, like the words need to vibrate their way into Johnny. “John, I love you.”

It’s like someone’s poured warm water on him, like lying in the grass on the one warm day of summer, soaking in sunshine as if he’s a lizard. “Say it again,” he whispers, mouth pressed into Gheorghe’s shoulder. 

Gheorghe nuzzles against his neck, coarse beard tickling and surely leaving red marks in his stupid pale skin. He breathes out, warm and damp, mouth brushing against Johnny’s collarbone. “I love you.”

A sob works its way out of him, surprising them both. It shouldn't, by now, he's proven himself liable to weep at the drop of a hat. This is different though, like his heart cracked open somehow, expanding toward Gheorghe's never-ending warmth. “Fucking hell, you've broke me, haven't ya?”

Gheorghe cradles his face, thumbs brushing the tears back into his hair. “It's okay, I can fix it.”

“God, I love you.” For all that worry, the words just fall out of him now. Gheorghe's eyes somehow get darker, his mouth spreading on that slow, tender smile that makes Johnny want to push him up against the closest hard surface and drop to his knees.

"Would you want that?” He’s not sure where the question comes from, he wasn’t planning to bring it up, not yet at least. Gheorghe’s face scrunches up, eyebrows drawn together as he looks over toward the sprawl of lace tossed onto the bed. Johnny smacks him in the shoulder. “Not the dress, don't laugh, would you want that...with me?"

“Oh, you want to wear the dress? I don’t think white is really your color.” He’s still making that face, that one that means he doesn’t quite understand what Johnny’s on about this time, but he’s just going to go along with it until something makes sense. 

“Forget the damn dress, you idiot. I’m talking about getting wed. I know I said that wasn’t what we were doing, back before. Things have changed now though, so I’m askin’ ya.”

“You want to get married?”

Johnny pulls his fingers through his hair and tugs, pacing away to the other end of the room. Unfortunately that’s only about five steps and then he’s back in front of Gheorghe again, the question still hanging there. 

“Don’t do that - I asked you! I can’t...I don’t know what I want anymore. I want you to stay. I want you t’be happy, you know?”

Gheorghe catches his hands, pulling them together against his chest. Another signal that Johnny thrives off of. _Slow down._ He takes a breath, then another, until his ears stop ringing and he can feel the steady beat of Gheorghe’s heart under his fingertips. 

Then, his voice, quiet and sure. “I think we should get married. It will be a good thing. But neither of us are going to wear a dress.”

Johnny nods, still focusing on breathing. Gheorghe picks up one of his hands and brings it to his mouth, kissing a line across his palm and up to the end of his middle finger. Then, he looks up at Johnny through the thick sweep of his lashes, and licks him. It startles a laugh out of Johnny, one that grows from a breath of air to into something all encompassing. He grips the fingers of his other hand in Gheorghe’s sweater, pulling him close and seeking out that kitten tongue with his mouth, not stopping until they’re both breathless. 

He can’t stop smiling now, tugging at Gheorghe’s clothes to get to skin underneath. 

“You haven't even said yes yet,” Gheorghe says, lifting his arms so Johnny can pull his jumper off over his head. He comes out with a riot of curls, long enough since his last cut for his hair to grow into something long enough to grip. 

“Wasn't a proper question anyway, not from either one of us.”

Gheorghe smirks. “You're right, you should get on your knees.”

Johnny laughs, sliding one hand into Gheorghe's hair and working the other down the front of his pants. “You want a proposal or your dick sucked?”

“Yes.”

Johnny steals a kiss, then another, pushing Gheorghe down on the bed and fighting past jeans and thermals to the warm skin beneath. They can sort out logistics later, the when's and how's, figure out how to tell Nan. Right now the only thing that matters is Gheorghe arching up underneath him and the warm feeling filling his chest. 

***

The rain starts up as they get the last of the sheep in the barn, one of those summer storms that sweep through and drench everything in its path, crashing away again just as quick as it came. The evening sky catches the last of it, throwing color up into the clouds. It's beautiful, but not as lovely as Gheorghe's face turning wondrous over the view. Johnny's stomach churns, still debating whether this is real or some elaborate dream he found at the bottom of a glass of sambuca. It must be real, though, his drunk brain is too miserable to come up with anything this good.

Of course, Gheorghe catches him watching. He pulls off his gloves and throws them at Johnny, laughing. “Enjoying the view, are you?” 

“Nah, just got distracted by your dumb face.” It's a joke and the truth rolled together, some days just being around Gheorghe drives him to distraction. 

Gheorghe sticks his tongue out, coming over to pick his gloves up off the floor of the barn. His shirt’s stuck to his chest, a mixture of sweat and rain, the damp edges of his chest hair peeking out at the collar. Johnny bites the inside of his cheek to knock back the urge to put his mouth there, to find the salt collecting in the hollow of Gheorghe’s throat. 

It strikes him, that this man is his somehow, that they're going to get married under the temperamental Yorkshire sun, even with Nan's pinched face glancing toward the church up the way. He found more absolution in the mud up in the mountains, in hands that cared enough to show him what kindness was. This land is church enough for him, beautiful but not lonely anymore.

Things aren't simple, or easy. Dad's not getting better. Nan isn't going to change. The farm might survive or it might not. It doesn't matter, not with Gheorghe's hands and his smile, not with his quiet nod saying Johnny's done something good. 

They'll figure the rest out.


End file.
